Other than during and following childbirth, I’ve never needed any medical attention beyond a few Motrin and a couple of Band-Aids. I stare at the fluorescent light. I don’t like this one bit. Where is the nurse? Please come back. Isn’t there a button somewhere I can push to call her? I look for a button, a phone, a speaker to yell into. I see the fluorescent light on the ceiling and an ugly beige curtain hanging next to me. Nothing else. No window, no TV, no phone, nothing. This room sucks.
I wait. My head is too hot. I try to call out for the nurse, but my brutalized throat can manage only a raspy whisper.
“Hello?”
I wait.
“Bob?”
I wait. I wait forever as I picture my brain and everything I love melting away.
THE FLUORESCENT LIGHT AGAIN. I must’ve dozed off. My world is this fluorescent light. The light and the low, continuous, electronic whirring and beeping of whatever equipment might be monitoring me. Monitoring me and keeping me alive? God, I hope not. My world is meetings and deadlines, emails and airports, Bob and my kids. How did my world get reduced to this? How long have I been lying under this ugly light?
I move my hand beneath the bedsheet and down to my leg. Oh no. I’m feeling at least a week’s worth of stubble. The hair on my legs is fair-colored, almost blond, but I have a ton of it, and I usually shave every day. I rub my hand up and down my thigh like I’m petting a goat at the zoo.
Oh God, my chin. I have a cluster of five hairs on the left side of my chin. They’re coarse and wiry, like boar hair, and for the past couple of years, they’ve been my hideous secret and my sworn enemies. They sprout up every couple of days, and so I have to be vigilant. I keep my weapons—Revlon tweezers and a 10X magnifying mirror—at home, in my Sherpa bag, and in my desk drawer at work, so in theory, I can be anywhere, and if one of those evil little weeds pokes through the surface, I can yank it. I’ve been in meetings with CEOs, some of the most powerful men in the world, and could barely stay focused on what they were saying because I’d inadvertently touched my chin and become obsessed with the idea of destroying five microscopic hairs. I hate them, and I’m terrified of someone else noticing them before I do, but I have to admit, there is almost nothing more satisfying than pulling them out.
I stroke my chin, expecting to feel my Little Pig beard, but touch only smooth skin. My leg feels like a farm animal, which suggests I haven’t shaved in at least a week, but my chin is bare, which would put me in this bed for less than two days. My body hair isn’t making any sense. I hear nurses’ voices in conversation coming from what I imagine is the hallway outside my room.
I hear something else. It’s not the machine that may or may not be keeping me alive, not the nurses’ chatter, not even the faint buzz of the fluorescent light. I hold my breath and listen. It’s Bob’s snore!
I turn my head, and there he is, asleep in a chair in front of the beige curtain.
“Bob?”
He opens his eyes. He sees me seeing him and pops upright.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“What happened?”
“You were in a car accident.”
“Am I okay?”
He looks at the top of my head and then into my eyes and purposefully not at the top of my head.
“You’re going to be fine.”
His expression reminds me of what happens to his face when he’s watching the Red Sox. It’s bottom of the ninth, two outs, the count is 3 and 2, there’s nobody on, and they’re four runs down. He wants to believe that they can still win, but he knows they’ve probably already lost. And it’s breaking his heart.
I touch the staples on my head.
“They did surgery, to relieve the pressure. The doctor said You did really well.”
His voice shakes as he says this. Not only are the Sox losing, they’re playing the Yankees.
“How long have I been here?”
“Eight days. They had you sedated. You’ve been asleep for most of it.”
Eight days. I’ve been unconscious for eight days. I touch my bald head again.
“I must look horrible.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Oh please. I’m about to tease him for being so corny when he starts crying, and I’m stunned silent. In the ten years that I’ve known and loved him, I’ve never seen him cry. I’ve seen him tear up—when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and when our babies were born—but I’ve never seen him cry. I’m an easy crier. I cry watching the news, whenever anyone sings the National Anthem, when someone’s dog dies, when I get overwhelmed at work, when I get overwhelmed at home. And now when Bob cries.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say, weeping with him.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
I reach over and touch his wet, contorted face. I can tell he’s struggling to pull his emotions back in, but he’s like a shaken bottle of champagne, and I just popped the cork. Only nobody’s celebrating.
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t leave me, Sarah.”
“Look at me,” I say, pointing to my head. “Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”
He laughs and wipes his nose with his sleeve.
“I’m going to be fine,” I say with teary determination.
We nod and squeeze hands, agreeing to a certainty we both know nothing about.
“Do the kids know?” I ask.
“I told them you’re away for work. They’re good, business as usual.”
Good. I’m glad he didn’t tell them that I’m in the hospital. No need to scare them. I’m normally home with them for the hour or two before school and for the last hour of their day, but it’s also normal for there to be times when I have to work late and miss seeing them before they go to bed. And they’re also used to my frequent travel schedule and me being entirely away for many days at a time. Still, when I travel, I’m not usually gone for more than a week. I wonder how long I’d need to be here for them to really wonder where I am.
“Does work know?”
“Yes, they sent most of the cards. They said not to worry about anything and to get better.”
“What cards?”
“Over there, taped to the wall.”
I look over at the wall, but I don’t see anything taped to it. They must be on the wall behind the curtain.
“How long do I need to stay here?”
“I don’t know. How are you feeling?” he asks.
My head is no longer on fire, and it surprisingly doesn’t hurt much. I’m sore all over, though, like how I imagine a boxer must feel after a fight. The boxer who lost. I also have intense cramping in my leg. I’ve noticed that sometimes there is some sort of device on my leg that massages the muscles, which helps. And I have no energy. Just talking to Bob these past few minutes has tuckered me out.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I can tell he’s bracing himself for something gruesome.
“I’m starving.”
He smiles, relieved.
“What do you feel like having? Anything you want.”
“How about soup?” I suggest, thinking soup is probably safe. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to eat anything I want yet.
“You got it. I’ll be right back.”
He leans over and kisses my chapped lips. I wipe the tears off his cheek and chin and smile. Then he disappears behind the ugly beige curtain.
It’s just me and the fluorescent light again. The fluorescent light, the beeping and whirring, and the beige curtain. And somewhere behind the curtain, wonderful get-well cards from work on the wall.
CHAPTER 8
What’s the matter, Sarah, you don’t want your lunch?” asks the nurse.
I’ve been staring at yet another bowl of chicken noodle soup for a while wondering how to tackle it. It smells good. I’m sure it smells infinitely better than it will taste, and it looks a bit congealed now, but I’m starving. I want to eat it.
“I don’t have a s
poon.”
The nurse looks at my tray and then back up at me.
“How about the brownie?” she asks.
I look at the tray I’ve been keeping company and then back up at her.
“What brownie?”
Seemingly out of nowhere, the nurse produces a spoon in her hand and plunks a cellophane-wrapped brownie on the tray next to the bowl of soup. I stare at her as if she’s about to pull a quarter out from behind my ear.
“You didn’t see these on your tray?” she asks, handing me the spoon.
“They weren’t on my tray.”
“But you see them now,” she says, more conclusive than curious.
“Uh-huh.”
I slurp a spoonful of broth. I was right. The soup is dish-water. I move on to the brownie. Chocolate is always edible.
“I’ll be back with Dr. Kwon in a few minutes,” she says.
Okay. Can you abracadabra me a glass of milk when you do?
AN ASIAN MAN IN A white lab coat is standing at the foot of my bed holding a clipboard, clicking and unclicking his ballpoint pen as he peruses the pages of what I assume is my medical chart. His face is hairless, smooth, gorgeous. His face could be eighteen. But I’m guessing this is Dr. Kwon, my doctor, in which case he’d better have age-defying genetics and be at least thirty.
“Sarah, good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”
Anxious, tired, scared.
“Good.”
He clicks his pen and writes something down. Oh, I’m being interviewed. I’d better concentrate. Whatever he’s testing me on, I want to get an A. I want to go home. I want to get back to work.
“How would you say I’m doing?” I ask.
“Good. Things look pretty good considering. You came in pretty banged up. You had a depressed skull fracture and some bleeding on your brain. We had to go in and drain it. We got it all, but with the bleed and the inflammation, you sustained some damage. Your scan shows you’ve lost some real estate. But you’re lucky the insult was on the right and not the left, or you probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”
I think his answer started with “good,” but I’m having a hard time hearing any semblance of “good” in any of the words he uttered after that, even as I play it back. “Brain damage.” That sounds like the opposite of “good” to me. I think he also said “Lucky.” I feel dizzy.
“Can you get my husband? I want him to hear this with me.”
“I’m right here,” says Bob.
I turn to see him, but he’s not there. The only people in the room are me and the handsome Dr. Kwon.
“Why are you looking at the chair? I’m over here,” says Bob.
“Bob? I can’t find you.”
“Stand on the other side of me,” says Dr. Kwon.
“There you are!” I say, like we’re playing a game of peek-a-boo.
Weird that I couldn’t see him a second ago. Maybe my vision was affected by the accident. Maybe he was standing too far back. Dr. Kwon adjusts my bed so that I’m sitting upright.
“Sarah, focus on my nose and tell me when you see my finger.”
He’s holding his index finger up near my ear.
“I see it.”
“How about now?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
“How about now?”
“No.”
“Is she blind?” asks Bob.
Of course I’m not blind. What kind of crazy question is that? Dr. Kwon flashes a light into my eyes. I study his black coffee eyes as he studies something about mine.
“Follow my light. Good. No, the areas of her brain responsible for vision weren’t damaged, and her eyes look fine.”
He pulls out a sheet of paper from his clipboard, places it on my tray table, wheels the table in front of me, and hands me a pen. Uppercase and lowercase letters are scattered across the page.
“Sarah, can you circle all the A’s for me?”
I do this.
“Are you sure you’ve found them all?” he asks.
I check my work.
“Yes.”
He pulls out another sheet.
“Can you draw a vertical line through the middle of each of these horizontal lines?”
I divide the nine lines in half. I look up, ready to ace the next puzzle.
“All done? Okay, let’s move this tray out of the way. Can you hold both arms straight out for me, palms up?”
I do this.
“Are you holding both arms out?”
“Yes.”
“Is she paralyzed?” asks Bob.
Again, what kind of nonsensical question is that to ask? Did he not just see me move? Dr. Kwon taps my arm and leg with a small rubber hammer.
“No, she’s got some weakness on the left, but that should come back with time and rehab. She has Left Neglect. It’s a pretty common condition for patients who’ve suffered damage to the right-hemisphere, usually from a hemorrhage or stroke. Her brain isn’t paying attention to anything on her left. ‘Left’ doesn’t exist to her.”
“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t exist’?” asks Bob.
“Exactly that. It’s not there to her. She won’t notice you if you’re standing to her left, she won’t touch the food on the left side of her plate, and she might not even believe that her left arm and leg belong to her.”
“Because ‘left’ doesn’t exist to her?” asks Bob.
“Right,” says Dr. Kwon. “I mean, yes.”
“Will it come back?” asks Bob.
“It might, it might not. With some patients, we see symptoms resolve over the first few weeks as inflammation goes down, and the brain heals. But with others, it persists, and the best you can do is learn to live with it.”
“With no left,” says Bob.
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t seem to notice that it’s missing,” says Bob.
“Yes, that’s true for most patients in the acute phase immediately following the injury. She’s mostly unaware of her unawareness. She’s not aware that the left side of everything is missing. To her, it’s all there, and everything is normal.”
I may be unaware of some unawareness, but Dr. Kwon and Bob seem unaware that I’m still here.
“Do you know you have a left hand?” Bob asks me.
“Of course I know I have a left hand,” I say, embarrassed that he keeps asking these ridiculous questions.
But then I consider this ridiculous question. Where is my left hand? I have no idea. Oh my God, where is my left hand? How about my left foot? That’s also missing. I wiggle my right toes. I try to send the same message to my left foot, but my brain returns it to sender. Sorry, no such address.
“Bob, I know I have a left hand, but I have no idea where it is.”
CHAPTER 9
I’ve been in the hospital for twelve days now, and I’ve moved from the ICU to the hospital’s neurology unit where I’ve been Dr. Kwon’s pet guinea pig for the past couple of days. He wants to learn more about Left Neglect before they move me out of this wretched room and over to rehab. He says there’s not a lot understood about this condition, which is news that I find more than a little depressing. But maybe he’ll learn something from me that will advance the clinical understanding of Neglect. And maybe that will help me. I’m also happy to cooperate because learning more about my condition only involves questions, puzzles, pen, and paper and does not involve needles, blood draws, or brain scans. And it keeps me occupied for a good while, time that would otherwise be filled with nothing but obsessive worrying about work, missing Bob and the kids, and staring at the fluorescent light and peeled paint on the ceiling. So Dr. Kwon and I have been spending lots of quality time together.
As I answer questions and do word searches, I try to join Dr. Kwon and find it oddly fascinating instead of hopelessly terrifying that I never notice or include anything on the left. I’m not even aware that I’ve ignored anything until Dr. Kwon or one of my therapists or n
urses tells me what I’ve missed. Then, when I realize the magnitude of what isn’t there to me, instead of dissolving in a puddle of my own tears or wailing This is bad, this is really, really bad, I force the most positive thing I can think of. Usually something like, Wow. It feels like the mayor of Doomsville is offering me a key to the city, but I’m doing my best to stay out of town.
I do enjoy the drawing tests. It feels like a million years ago that I carried an artist’s sketchpad everywhere I went. I majored in economics in college, but I took just as many courses in graphic design, art, and art history. I try imagining where in my cluttered attic those pads might be stored, but I can’t find them. Maybe they’re on the left. I hope I didn’t throw them out.
Dr. Kwon asks me to draw a flower, a clock, a house, a face.
“You’re good,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Did you draw a whole face?”
“Yes.”
I look at my picture with pride and love. I drew Lucy. As I admire her features, doubt creeps into my consciousness.
“Didn’t I?” I ask.
“No. How many eyes do people have?”
“Two.”
“Did you draw two?”
I look at my picture of Lucy.
“I think so.”
He clicks his pen and writes. He’s writing something negative about my drawing of Lucy Goose, and no one should do that. I push the paper toward him.
“You draw a face,” I say.
He draws a simple smiley, done in two seconds.
“Did you draw a whole face?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I click my pen as emphatically as I can, high in the air, and then pretend to write my evaluation on an invisible clipboard.
“What are you writing, Dr. Nickerson?” he asks, feigning deep concern.
“Well, don’t faces have ears, eyebrows, hair? I’m afraid you have a very serious but fascinating condition, doctor.”
He laughs and adds a tongue sticking out from the bottom of the line for the mouth.
“True, true. Our brains normally don’t need every piece of information to assume a whole. Like our blind spot. We all have a blind spot where our optic nerve leaves the retina, but we don’t normally notice this blank space in our field of vision because our brains fill in the picture,” Dr. Kwon says. “That’s probably what you’re doing. You’re relying on only the right half to assume a whole, and your brain is unconsciously filling in the blanks. Wonderful observation. Truly fascinating.”